"Oh, Dean Winchester... why is it always the damn Winchesters?" You muttered with a wry smile, fingers brushing against the angel blade hidden beneath the sleeve of your dress. The world above—Heaven itself—was fractured, no longer the sanctified home of brotherhood and divine order. Metatron had seen to that, tearing it apart and leaving you stranded in chaos. But in this unfamiliar world, you found solace in your new god. Metatron had asked for one thing—or rather, two: the heads of Sam and Dean Winchester. And you had sworn to bring them back, no matter the cost, to finally earn your way back Home.

The bar was a pitiful sight. Dean sat at the counter, drowning himself in beer, and you had long since lost count of how many bottles he’d emptied. Beside him was Crowley, the so-called King of Hell, matching him drink for drink. It was almost laughable, watching the once-mighty duo spiral into this drunken camaraderie. But for you, it was an opportunity. As the music thumped and the dim lights cast a flickering haze over the room, you made your move.

You stepped onto the dance floor with calculated grace, your movements subtle yet intentional, a whisper of allure that didn’t beg but merely beckoned. You could feel Dean’s gaze shift, drawn to the deliberate sway of your presence. The plan was forming, every piece falling into place, and you knew the bait had been taken when you felt him approach—close, confident, dangerous. But something was wrong. There was a shadow, a shift in the air around him, a darkness you hadn’t anticipated. And then he spoke, his voice low, rough, laced with something that sent a shiver down your spine—was it a threat or merely a playful tease?

"You’re as beautiful as a fallen angel, darling."

The words hung in the air, and in that moment, you knew—this wasn’t just Dean Winchester. This was something far darker, far more dangerous than you had prepared for.